here plenty of roses, but they were
arranged in well-laid-out beds, and in no case were guarded or menaced by
angry griffins.

"Never mind," said Sinclair, as they returned to the house for dinner,
"it's something to work on. I shall stay at home to-morrow and try to
find that particular rosebush, or the place where it used to be."

"Maybe it's a stone rose," said Patty, as she touched a rose carved in
stone that was part of an ornamental urn whose handles were the heads of
angry griffins. Sinclair stared at her.

"You're right," he said, slowly, as if grasping a great thought. "It's
much more likely to be a rose of stone or marble, and when that's
ruthlessly torn away the secret will be revealed. Oh, mother, there _is_
hope!"

Patty had never seen the placid Sinclair so excited, and they all went to
their rooms to get ready for dinner, with a feeling that something was
going to happen. Conversation at dinner was all on the engrossing
subject.

Everybody made suggestions, and everybody recalled various partly-forgotten
griffins in odd nooks and corners, each being sure that was "just the place
uncle would choose!"

After dinner, the young people were anxious to go out and search more,
but it had begun to rain, so they all went into the library and again
scrutinised the old papers Patty had found.

They looked through more books, too, but found nothing further of
interest.

At last, wearied with the hunt, Patty threw herself into a big armchair
and declared she would do no more that night.

"I should say not," said Bob. "You've done quite enough in giving us this
new start."

Although, as Patty had said, the looking through all the old books was
Bob's plan, he generously gave her the credit of this new find. Sinclair
threw himself on a long leather couch, and began to sing softly some of
their nonsense songs, as he often did when tired out. The others joined,
and for a time the fortune was left to take care of itself.

Very pleasant were the four fresh young voices, and the elders listened
gladly to their music.

In the middle of a song, Patty stopped, and sat bolt upright, her eyes
staring at a door opposite her as if she had never seen it before.

"Gracious, goodness! Patty," said Mabel, "what is the matter?"

"What is it, little one?" said Sinclair, still humming the refrain of the
interrupted song.

Patty pointed to the door, or rather to the elaborately carved door
frame, and said slowly, "I've b